


It was a nice day

by Eikaron



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternative Title: Nazis in St. James Park, Aziraphale making an almost recent pop culture reference, Crowley being a snarky badass, Homophobia, M/M, Skinheads, could be an established relationship, neo nazis, or not giving a fig about social norms re acceptable forms of male physical contact, which totally sounds like an episode of Doctor Who
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 20:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17856218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eikaron/pseuds/Eikaron
Summary: Crowley is trying to have a nice day with Aziraphale and does not like having it disturbed by homophobic skinheads.





	It was a nice day

**Author's Note:**

> Ooof. I don't know where this idea came from and if it's any good and I'm not sure I'm entirely satisfied with how I've written it but whatever, sometimes you just have to post the damn thing anyway and hope for the best. 
> 
> If someone would like to britpick this (the dialogue especially) I'd be much obliged because English is not my first language and trying to write any kind of dialect in a foreign language is effing HARD. Heck, it's hard enough in my *own* language.

 

It was a nice day. All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them so far after the Nopocalypse 1 and not all of them had been sunny. This did not matter in the slightest. Every day was the first day of the rest of their lives. 

 

###

 

Crowley was loitering expertly in the doorway of the bookshop, watching a highly concentrated Aziraphale reshelve his books as if he were a blessed normal person rather than someone with the ability to instantly miracle them into the right order. He had been waiting for the angel to notice him for over twenty minutes. 2 After precisely thirty-four minutes and fifty-two seconds Crowley got sufficiently bored of waiting (in other words: he gave up any hope of Aziraphale ever noticing his presence) and loudly and conspicuously cleared his throat.

Aziraphale flinched violently and nearly dropped the Oscar Wilde First Edition he had been holding.

"Crowley! Goodness, you've startled me! How long have you been standing there?"

"For seven Tequilas", said Crowley, as he waltzed in.

"What?"

"Never mind." 

The angel shot him a confused look, put Oscar in his place and picked up _La divina comedia_ from the stack on his desk.

"What brings you here, dear boy?" 

Crowley took the book out of Aziraphale's only mildly resisting hands and was just about to answer, when he was thwarted by a sneezing fit.

"Rescuing you from developing asthma", he said, after it had finally stopped. "You really ought to dust in here more often, angel. Or at all", he added snottily. 

"It's a good way to keep certain _… people_ away", said Aziraphale icily.  

The dirty look he gave Crowley suggested that while 'certain people' mainly included potential customers, demons could always be added to the list if they were being a pest.

" _Any_ way", said Crowley quickly, " 'S way too nice outside to shelve books, angel. Let's do St. James."

"It _is_ a very nice day", agreed Aziraphale, smiled benevolently and firmly retrieved his book. "A nice day for shelving books."

Crowley put his hands in his pockets. His face had dropped slightly. 

"You can always do it later", he pointed out. "It's not like you need daylight. Or even go to sleep."

 Aziraphale managed to act coyly for another forty-five seconds and then gave in.  

 "Oh, fine", he said. "But I haven't had lunch yet."

 The demon peered at him over the top of a brand-new pair of shades.

 "Let me tempt you to a picnic", he proposed.

 "I'll get my books", said Aziraphale happily and bustled off to collect his current reading material.

 When they got to the Bentley, its back seat was occupied by a fully stocked picnic basket and a large blanket. It had a tartan pattern.

  

###

 

After volunteering for the heroic sacrifice of taking the final piece of sausage, Crowley flopped down on his back and pretended to be dead or at least to have a serious case of food induced paralysis; which wasn't actually all that much of a pretense.

" 'M feeling like a bloody Christmas goose", he yawned. "Stuffed to the brim."

"Oh", said Aziraphale in a disappointed voice. "Then I suppose you won't want to share this Château d'Yquem with me?" He held up a bottle. 

Crowley lifted his head the minimum amount required to glare at Aziraphale.

 "There's always space for _wine,_ angel", he hissed, prompting an amused chuckle from the angel, who poured them both a glass.

 Afterwards Aziraphale leaned back against the broad trunk of the chestnut tree in whose shadow they had chosen to sit and asked: "Would you mind terribly if I read for a bit?"

His hand was already expectantly hovering over one of the books he had brought. 

"Nuh", said Crowley, who was trying to figure out a way to drink comfortably without sitting up. "Can I put my head in your lap?"

By the time Crowley had finished speaking and removed his sunglasses so they wouldn't be in the way, Aziraphale had already picked up his book and impatiently flicked through half of its pages in search for the bookmark. It took him several seconds to even register the question, let alone answer it.

"Only if you don't mind me using it as a book prop", he said absent-mindedly, removed a flyer for 'Harry Potter and the Cursed Child' and delved into his 19th century vampire romance with alacrity.

Crowley didn't mind.

Having his head high enough to not choke on his drink while lying down comfortably at the same time more than made up for being used as a prop in his opinion. That and a place on Aziraphale's lap usually meant him playing with Crowley's hair, which was nothing to be sneezed at either.

 

###

 

"Oi, you there. Yeah, I mean you, ya fuckin' pansies."

Someone kicked Crowley's leg. He lazily opened an eye and lifted the book planted on his forehead a little bit so that he could see. Aziraphale didn't even notice.

In Crowley's line of vision there were three pairs of black boots. They were the kind of boots often worn by men who also liked to wear thick leather jackets, shave their heads and were generally in dire need of anger management classes. 

With an internal groan, Crowley's eyes went from the boots up to the legs to yes, leather jackets, and, also yes, shaved heads. Lovely.

"Sod off", he told them, audibly annoyed. He had been dozing comfortably in Aziraphale's lap for the past hour and was not planning on stopping just because a few idiots had got it into their heads to be a royal pain in the arse.

The boys looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. Crowley judged them to be no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. One of them barely even had a beard.

" 'Scuse me, fella? What did ya just say t'me?", asked the one who had kicked Crowley in a falsely sweet voice and bent down, looming menacingly over the pair. He was short and square and reminded Crowley very much of Ligur. The demon immediately pegged him as the leader of the gang. 

Aziraphale was too wrapped up in his book to pay any attention whatsoever to what was going on around him. Hence, he ignored them all and kept reading. 

This was clearly considered a personal affront to the leader, who looked infuriated. Crowley noted this with no small amount of satisfaction

"You heard me", he told them with a snide look from under the book, ostentatiously refusing to even get up. "Bugger off you lot or I'll make you."

"We're not takin' orders from no fuckin' poof", said the boy on the left, whose freckles were in grim competition with a heavy case of acne, and cracked his knuckles. Upon hearing the high-pitched voice Crowley mentally adjusted his initial age assessment down at least two years. 

"Yeah, what the fuck d'you think you're doing, you bloody pillow biters? Shovin' it in our faces like that", the third one chimed in. "We oughta teach ya a lesson." He was baby faced and chubby and Crowley knew instantly that not only was the boy aware of this fact, it was also a Sore Point for him. He smirked and filed it away for later, just in case he needed to get psychological.

 "Y'know what I'm-", began the leader, but he was interrupted by Aziraphale who let out an annoyed huff and looked up from his book.

 " _Excuse_ me, I am trying to read", he said sharply. "And mind your language, young man", he added, with a pointed look to Baby Face. 

Crowley watched their faces turn beet red with malicious glee. Aziraphale sighed and lifted the book in order to look at Crowley.

 "My dear, would you mind taking care of this?" 

"Sure, leave the dirty work to the demon, why don't you", grumbled Crowley and made to get up. The process was sped up considerably when 'Ligur', bristling with anger, bent down, grabbed a fistful of Crowley's dark-red dress shirt and bodily hauled him to his feet. He threw Aziraphale a nasty look but apparently decided that the ponce in a dress shirt and skinny jeans was a worthier target than a bloke who looked like his old school teacher. The three of them shoved Crowley off to the side and surrounded him in a half-circle.

 "Get your filthy hands off me!", hissed the demon and tore the one still holding his shirt off with a glare.

"What, ya scared I'll crumple your precious Prada shirt?", jeered 'Ligur' and shoved Crowley in the shoulder. His cronies laughed dutifully. "That should -"

"This is _Gucci,_ you heathen", said Crowley indignantly and kicked him square between the legs.

He went down like a deflated balloon, unable to get out anything more than a very pained 'Hnnf' and crumpled into a heap on the ground. Crowley sighed inwardly. Some people were never going to learn. If you wanted to beat someone up you had to bloody well do so, not go around mocking them like the villain in an overpriced Marvel film. Everybody knew how that one ended.   

"Trev!", gasped the other two in unison, gawking alternately at Crowley and their fallen leader.

Crowley's face fell a little. With his luck the little shite's last name would probably be Jones or Smith or something equally boring. Writing 'Beating up Trevor Jones, Nazi" in a report just did not have a ring to it, in his opinion.  It lacked the dramatic flair. 3

"You'll regret that!", howled Acne, as Crowley had secretly dubbed him. He and Baby Face lunged at him or at least that was what they intended to do. Crowley took a few carefully calculated steps back.

Two seconds later he basked in the feeling of smug satisfaction over a bad job well done when they fell over in two arm waving, ungraceful arcs – their noses burying into the grass only a few centimetres shy of the tips of his snakeskin shoes – because their shoelaces had inexplicably tied themselves together with several extremely tight knots while their belts had at the same time done rather the opposite. Crowley smirked and ostentatiously brushed himself off before stepping over the heap of tangled limbs while they tried to sort themselves out; all the while spewing swears and cusswords 4 at him. He went over to Aziraphale and picked up his wineglass.

"Shouldn't you have tried to convince them of the error of their ways?", he said and raised an eyebrow while he took a drink and a look around. Despite the large number of people around them, nobody seemed to have noticed the altercation at all, to Crowley's mild surprise.

"Oh, shut up, you", said Aziraphale huffily, although he blushed slightly. "She just found out he's a vampire. It was getting good. And yes, I did take the liberty of making us invisible and inaudible. You're welcome."

Crowley grinned and sat down to watch the group struggling to get back on their feet under another great deal of vulgar (and creative) cursing. 5 'Ligur' kept whimpering.

Aziraphale went back to his book. After a while he said, with the hint of a smile: "I suppose Prada really would have been too cliché for you to wear, wouldn't it?"  

 "Did you just make a joke with a pop culture reference from _this_ century, angel?"

 

* * *

 

 

1Crowley liked to come up with evermore creative names for the Armageddon that had failed to happen. His current favourite was 'Armageddonwithit'.

 2Every five minutes Crowley mentally added a Tequila shot to the list of drinks the angel would buy him the next time they went out for drinks.

 3 Technically speaking Crowley should have been on their side, but he had long since learned that he could sell almost everything short of helping old ladies across the street as 'furthering their cause in the long run' to his superiors. And he would _never_ forget Augsburg.

 4 He was delighted whenever they called him an insult he hadn't heard before. As a demon it was his sacr-, er, _damned_ duty to be up to date on all the ways humans verbally abused each other.

 5 Crowley briefly wondered whether or not he ought to take notes.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could give proper credit to whoever came up with "Armageddonwithit" but fucked if I know where I read this first (either here or on tumblr probably).


End file.
